30. The Past
The Past
TJ
“Close your eyes.Take a few slow, deep breaths. Relax your mind and listen to my voice.”
I’d laugh if I wasn’t so nervous. Here I am, on my therapist’s couch, about to do some hypnosis voodoo shit. All that’s missing is the swinging pocket watch. Look into my eyes. Great. Now I’m envisioning Dracula when I’m supposed to be relaxing my mind.
But how am I supposed to relax when I’m about to recount what happened the day my mom died? That’s a memory I’ve stuffed down so far, I don’t even know where to begin.
But I promised Reggie I’d make him proud. I held his hand on his death bed and promised him I’d keep fighting. If this is what I need to do, consider it done.
And so I begin. “On my thirteenth birthday, we were about to have cake. Mom, Dad, and me. My birthday was never a big deal growing up. Mom tried to make it special. Balloons, cake, a present to open after dinner. But Dad always found a way to ruin it.
“That particular day, Dad started complaining because he hated ice cream cake. Mom told him it was my favorite. Vanilla and chocolate with the crunchies in the middle.” I smile but it fades just as quickly. “Dad slapped her for talking back to him. He said it didn’t matter what my favorite kind of cake was, because he was the one who paid for it. He always threw it in her face, the fact that she didn’t work, though he’d never let her get a job.
“It made me so mad to see him hurt her, especially over something as irrelevant as cake. Sometimes, she knew when to keep quiet. He’d hit her once, and it would end there. But that night, she wanted to defend me. She told him he didn’t have to eat the cake if he didn’t like it. That’s when the night took a turn.
“It’s all a blur now. His glass of scotch smashing against the wall. Mom screaming at me to go to my room. I tried to stop him. I jumped on his back but that seemed to make him even angrier. Then he took her by the throat. I pulled on his arm, but he shoved me so hard I lost my balance and hit my head on the side table.”
My body tenses, hands ball into fists.
“It’s okay, TJ. I’m here. You’re safe. Tell me what happens next.”
I suck in a breath, and force myself to go back to that moment. That horrific memory. The event that changed my life forever …
My eyelids flutter open.I blink until the white popcorn ceiling comes into focus.
I lift my hand to the source of the throbbing pain on the side of my head. Deep red blood glistens on my fingertips. My eyes avert to the end table beside the couch and there’s blood smeared along one of the sharp corners. I roll over to check if there’s any blood on the carpet. The Monster will be mad if I ruin his carpet.
I try to sit up, but a sound immobilizes me. It’s the only thing I can hear over the ringing in my ears from the splitting headache I now have.
Gagging.
Gagging is different from gasping. I’d gasped for air after The Monster held my head under water last month. Gasping means you’re getting oxygen into your lungs.
This isn’t that.
Mom isn’t getting any oxygen. She’s losing it.
I want to stand but my legs won’t work. My brain wants to take action but my body is paralyzed. I’m used to this. I’ve lived in fear my entire life. Fear traps you inside your own body, holding you prisoner, convincing you of lies that sound like the truth. Fear controls me. I let it, because I don’t know what else I can do.
I remain on the floor as my gaze travels upward, afraid to look, yet afraid to miss it. The Monster’s back is to me. He’s in the same position I left him in when he shoved me to the ground. I’d tried to stop him. I’d tried like hell. But what match is a scrawny thirteen-year old for such evil?
With his vice grip around Mom’s neck, her toes dangle a few inches above the tile. Her arms hang limp at her sides.
She should use her feet to kick him. She should try to break his grip around her throat.
But she’s not fighting. Not even in this extreme of a moment. She’s not fighting for herself. She’s not fighting for me.
That’s what fear does. It overpowers your fight.
Mom’s eyes lock with mine now. I expect her to convey some telepathic message asking me for help. But I can tell from the look in her eyes she doesn’t want help. She has already given up. The only thing her eyes say to me is I’m sorry.
I’m sorry, too, Mom. I’m sorry you married The Monster. I’m sorry you weren’t strong enough to fight him. I’m sorry you never took us away from him. I’m sorry I have to watch you die at the hand of the person who took a vow to love and to cherish you for all the days of your lives.
Most of all, I’m sorry I’m so helpless.
An eerie silence descends upon the room. Tears stream from her bulging, bloodshot eyes as her face turns another shade of purple. Mom is drifting away, and I’m glad. I’m glad she doesn’t have to endure another second of torture. I’m not surprised by my relief. Mom didn’t deserve this life. Now she’ll float up to heaven, the only place worthy of a woman like her.
I love you, Mom.
Reality sets in. Once The Monster is done with her, he’ll come for me. Adrenaline flows through my veins as fear releases me. I army-crawl to the end table for the phone. My shaky, blood-stained fingers press the three numbers I’m used to dialing. We should’ve had the police on speed dial. I slide the phone under the couch so The Monster won’t hear the person answer on the other end of the line. I don’t have to say anything. They’ll come soon. They always come.
A loud, hollow crack sounds throughout the room. I know what it is before I even look. I’ve heard Mom’s skull crack against the tile floor enough times to recognize the sound. Mom’s lifeless body lay at The Monster’s feet in a heap. Long, brown waves frame her heart-shaped face. With her delicate features and cascading hair, I used to tell her she was as beautiful as an angel. Now, she looks like an angel of death. Her skin has a grayish-blue tint to it, except for the red streaks around her neck where The Monster’s fingers left their marks. His parting gift, so she can take him with her.
A puddle seeps out from underneath her body, no longer in control of her bowels. Bruises line her arms, some a deep purple and some a yellowish green, telling stories new and old about the pain she has endured at the hands of a monster. Our monster.
Mom’s eyes are open. I want to crawl over to her and close them. They aren’t staring at me anymore. They aren’t staring at anything. The soul behind them has been set free.
The Monster’s rage subsides like a change in tide, replaced by the numbness of the alcohol. He slides down the wall and sits beside Mom’s body. He’s too much of a coward to look at her. I want to hold her hand. I want to lay with her. But I don’t. Fear tells me to stay where I am so The Monster isn’t reminded that I’m still here. Fear prevents me from having my final moment with my mother, though it’s keeping me safe. I hug my knees to my chest as my silent tears fall. I don’t want The Monster to see me cry. He hates it when I cry.
Red and blue flashing lights illuminate the room.
I take pleasure in watching an officer handcuff him, committing the image to memory. Justice is finally being served, after all these years. A sense of calm washes over me.
It’s over.
The Monster is gone.
But so is my mother.
I crawl to her. Brushing her hair away from her face, I press my lips to her forehead. Her skin isn’t cold, yet it doesn’t feel like her. Her usual warm, vanilla scent is gone.
She is gone.
Sour sickness churns in the pit of my stomach. I scramble to the bathroom down the hall and heave into the toilet. I stare at the chunks of vomit floating in the water, remembering how Mom used to rub my back in soothing circles whenever I got sick.
No one is here to rub my back now.
No one is here to comfort me.
I am alone.
I flush the toilet and rinse my mouth out in the sink. My reflection stares back at me in the mirror while I steady my breath. Big blue eyes. Dark hair. I look like the younger version of The Monster.
If a monster creates you, are you then part monster?
When I step out of the bathroom, Detective Woods is leaning against the wall waiting for me. I don’t make eye contact with him. Instead, I study his shoes. His shoes are always so shiny.
Woods places his large hand on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry about your mom.”
I nod.
“Thomas, I need you to come with me. Once the EMT checks you out, of course.”
I need to give my statement. I know the routine well. Only this time, I’ve witnessed a murder.
I follow Woods back into the living room. Yellow numbers now surround Mom’s body on the floor. My house no longer looks like my home. It’s a crime scene. I suppose it always was.
My eyes settle on the melting ice cream cake on the dining room table. An hour ago, Mom was singing Happy Birthday to me and Dad was explaining how turning thirteen meant I was a man.
Yeah. Today’s my birthday.
The flash of a camera interrupts my thoughts. Who would want that job, taking pictures of dead bodies?
Woods puts his arm around my shoulders. “Come on, kid. You don’t need to watch this.”
It’s too late, I want to say. I’ve already seen too much.
More than anyone should.
Nothing will ever be the same again. Not that I want it to be as it was before. Living with a violent drunk for a father and a weak, abused mother isn’t a life I want to go back to … but where will I go from here? Who will want me now?
A monster’s child.
A monster child.
Sobs rack my body.Uncontrollable emotions unleash, flooding every cell in my being. My hands clutch my chest, as if I can physically stop everything from pouring out.
I’m hemorrhaging.
A release of all the bad.
Pain.
Fear.
Rage.
Guilt.
“You’re all right, TJ,” my therapist says. “You’re in my office. You’re safe. You’re going to be okay.”
How?I wonder.
How will I ever be okay?